


undercurrent

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, M/M, Sibling Incest, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 08:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Matt wants to feel Brady squirming underneath him, even though it’s hard to hold him down, now that Brady’s not small. Matt hates that they’re pretty much the same size, give or take a few pounds; he wants to tower over him. Brady is his little brother, it’s not right that he can meet him inch-for-inch.Then again, Brady is his little brother, and a lot of things about Matt and Brady aren’t right.





	undercurrent

**Author's Note:**

> don't read this if you know anyone mentioned in the tags, please. this is fake made up fiction.

Matt is pretty much every different kind of fucked up a person can be, alright? He knows it, he’s made his peace with it, he’s even thought about going to confession over it—thought about letting it slip off his tongue in the booth, even if he can’t even begin to imagine forming the words—and he’s thought about ignoring it until it goes away. 

The problem is, Brady is angry, and rude, and even mouthier than Matt is, and Matt wants to— 

He can’t. He can’t even finish the thought, because Brady is his fucking  _ brother.  _ Matt can’t, not when it’s this messed up. 

 

It’s easier to think: 

Matt wants to mess Brady up.

Matt wants to hold Brady down. 

Matt wants to feel Brady squirming underneath him, even though it’s hard to hold him down, now that Brady’s not small. Matt hates that they’re pretty much the same size, give or take a few pounds; he wants to tower over him. Brady is his little brother, it’s not right that he can meet him inch-for-inch. 

Then again, Brady is his little brother, and a lot of things about Matt and Brady aren’t right.

 

They wrestle, because Matt’s not sure what else he can do besides that. It’s the closest he can get to what he wants in a way that’s okay, in a way that doesn’t make him think,  _ What if mom saw? What if dad did? What if they knew?  _

Brady is hard to look at it, never happy or warm or inviting, but Matt wants to put his hands all over him. 

Sometimes, Brady will say, “Okay, stop, I have to piss,” and Matt used to think it was a copout, except Brady runs to the bathroom every time, like he’d truly waited til the last second before tapping out. 

Matt likes the idea of Brady being desperate and underneath him, and he’s not sure what to do with that, so he just keeps up the wrestling. 

 

Until one day, Matt doesn’t let him go. 

“I’m serious,” Brady is saying. “I really have to—” He gulps, and that’s when Matt knows it’s real. 

“Aw, little baby’s gonna have an accident?” 

Brady turns an angry, beautiful shade of red. “Fuck you.” 

“Oh my god, are you actually?” Matt says, pretending to sound delighted and cruel, but mostly, he’s just fascinated and terrified and unable to back off, which might as well be the tagline for his whole fucking life. 

“You’re the worst brother in the world,” Brady says. It sounds like a lie in his mouth, but Matt knows it’s the truth, so he presses Brady’s wrists a little harder into the bed and tries not to think at all. 

“If you’ve gotta piss, don’t be a brat,” Matt says. “You made your bed, now lie in it.” 

“You’re fucked up,” Brady says, and Matt doesn’t know why he doesn’t  _ mean  _ it. 

“And you’re gonna wet yourself,” Matt says. “You’re gonna wet yourself like a little fucking kid.” 

“I hate you.” 

He should _.  _ “You don’t.” 

“Let me go, or I’m making you explain this to mom,” Brady says. 

“I could wash the sheets,” Matt says. “No one would even know.” 

Something happens on Brady’s face that makes Matt’s fucking world turn upside down, but it’s gone before he even knows what it is. “You’d really do laundry if it meant you got to make me— you really want it that bad?”

Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he wants. “You’re the one who can’t hold it.”

“I can,” Brady says, all fire, and Matt’s hard, from friction and confusion and everything that shouldn’t turn him on. “I doubt you’re patient enough to keep me down here long enough.”

“I’m calling your bluff,” Matt says. “You’re fucking dying to go. Have been for a while.”

The way Brady turns red confirms Matt’s best and worst suspicions. “You’re a freak.”

“You didn’t tell me until you were—”

“Stop,” Brady says. “Shut up.”

It’s fierce and frantic and Matt sees the terror on Brady’s face, and he knows this is his last out, his final chance to let Brady go before he lets him go. 

The thing is, Brady is giving him this choice. Brady is trusting him with it. Brady wants something from Matt, wants Matt to do what he wants with him, and— 

“Don’t be an idiot and try to hold it,” Matt says. “You’ll, like, hurt your kidneys.” 

“Why the fuck do you know that,” Brady says, but he’s got his dick pressed up against Matt’s thigh, like it’s the last thing standing between him and relief. He’s not hard, but Matt is, which is kind of par for the course when they’re wrestling and probably the number one reason Matt’s going to hell, which is saying something, considering there are a lot of reasons Matt’s going to hell. 

“Just saying,” Matt says. “Let go, Brady.” 

He’s expecting it to take more coaxing, more words, more things that teeter on the edge of confessions, but apparently all it takes it Brady’s name in Matt’s mouth and then everything is— 

Warm, and wet, and salty, and gross, and Brady’s crying into his shoulder, and Matt wants to hold him, to kiss him, to run a hand through his hair and tell him everything’s gonna be okay. 

That feels worse than wanting to make Brady cry in the first place. 

“Good boy,” Matt says, feeling like he’s far away from his body. “You’re doing so good for me.” 

“Matty,” Brady says, high and whiny and like— like a little brother, really, in a way that goes right to Matt’s dick. 

It’s so messed up, because Matt loves Brady a lot, and he doesn’t know how to show it without drawing tears out of Brady’s eyes for him to kiss away. And he does, even if he doesn’t kiss his mouth, but Matt— 

Matt wants a lot, but he’s never going to ask for more than this. It’s not enough and too much at the same time, and the wet patches on Brady’s cheeks feel worse than the wet patches on their jeans. 

“Fuck,” Brady says, worn out and beaten down and beautiful. 

“Fuck,” Matt hears himself say. “Brady—” 

“Stop,” Brady says. “Stop, don’t—” 

“I’m sorry,” Matt says, because there’s no other time he can say it. 

He can practically feel the matching lumps in their throats. 

“Okay,” Brady says. 

“I love you,” Matt says, because he’s guilty enough to say it right now. “You know that, right?” 

Brady won’t meet his eye, which means he does. 

“You chose a weird time to be nice,” Brady says. 

Matt can’t help but put a hand on Brady’s face, gentle, and Brady flinches, but he feels warm under Matt’s fingers. 

His piss is rapidly cooling into the fabric of Matt’s jeans. 

Maybe they’ll both go to hell together. 

“Take a shower,” Matt says, feeling gentler than he ever has in his life. “I’ll clean up.” 

“Will you?” Brady says, sitting up. His voice is thin and hurt and Matt wants to kiss the truth into it, but he can’t, because that would be as bad as saying something. 

“I love you,” Matt says, unable to stop it. “Fuck, Brady—” 

“Matt,” Brady says in a near-whisper. His eyes are shiny and hurt and beautiful, and Matt wants him more than he’ll ever want anyone else. 

“Take a shower,” Matt says, instead of kissing his brother like he’s anything but a brother. “I’ll clean up. No one will know.” 

“Just us?” Brady looks something like hopeful, and Matt’s pretty sure one of them is gonna be sick if they don’t break apart soon. 

“Just us,” Matt confirms. “I promise.” 

Brady sits up, and Matt feels his leg get cooler, and fuck, Brady just wet himself. Matt just  _ made  _ Brady wet himself, because he’s so fucked up he doesn’t know how to— 

“I love you too, y’know,” Brady says. He’s always been the more levelheaded one, really. 

Matt kisses his hand, soft, like they’re in a fucking romance novel, instead of being covered in piss in Matt’s bed. “Go clean up.” 

Brady looks like the last thing he wants to do is leave Matt and get in the shower, but he climbs off the bed, not looking at Matt, and Matt pretends it doesn’t hurt. 

It’s not any easier to breathe, once Brady’s gone, but at least then Matt can close his eyes, take a breath, and pretend, for a second, that he’s ever going to get any more than this. 


End file.
